Author's Note: Burning Man is the world's greatest fantasy event. This story is based on an actual encounter.
*****
The sun was up and already hot. Voices were speaking to me, although an incredible hangover headache prevented comprehension.
"Look at him! What are you doing, lying in the dust?"
I glanced down, groaning. Overnight, the wind had come up and I was covered in an inch or two of white. Playa dust from the Black Rock desert not only covered me, but also my sleeping bag, my cot, and everything else in the fancy big tent I had bought for this trip. The dust was itchy and awful.
I sat up with great difficulty. "Water?"
"Elena, is he too stupid for us? Who puts up a tent and leaves it without the fly in a dust storm?"
Elena handed me her water bottle with a sympathetic nod. "He has troubles, like he said last night. Woman trouble."
The other voice, which I dimly remembered belonged to Katerina, said, "Come with us. You need shower first before we talk."
I stumbled after them, clad only in my shorts, asking, "What was in that punch? I am dying."
"Is special homemade vodka from our uncle Ivan's still. Very potent. We told you to sip, but you gulped. Is very popular. He has many customers from Park Slope. We brought some for the giving."
The side of their large rental box truck had a shower rigged up, complete with the required basin to capture gray water. They pulled off my shorts and thrust me under the head, which dripped a barely adequate amount of lukewarm water. Before I could say anything, two naked female bodies were standing in the basin with me. It was crowded but delightful. They had liquid soap and soon we all were sliding on each other. Elena placed my hand over her substantial breast and said, "We wash each other. Saves water."
Two things were happening. My head was clearing and my cock was growing. They grabbed him and giggled. "Yes. In the book it says he is well-endowed. This will be ok."
Still in a fog, I was led to one of their camp chairs and allowed to dry in the desert breeze. Elena approached with a full glass of something and said, "Drink. Old Russian recipe. Good for hangover."
There was a portable camp table to go with the camp chairs and soon breakfast appeared. Fruit, juice, bagels, sliced ham, cream cheese, black bread.
"Is Brooklyn breakfast. Ok?"
"Yes. Very ok." I gazed at my companions, whom I had known since yesterday afternoon. Curly hair, strong Slavic features. Ample bosums. Hips that could have been well padded, but weren't. Muscled thighs and legs. All three of us were naked, which would have been strange, except that we were at Burning Man, where many thousands of mostly naked people were spending the week.
My head was much better and I apologized for being such a lunkhead.
The women looked at each other. "Do we know lunkhead?"
I explained, "I grew up in Minnesota. Someone very dull was called a lunkhead by the
Swedes."
Elena was sitting in my lap, her left breast less than six inches from my lips.
"You remember, we are librarians? Supposed to know words. You will teach us more strange American words?"
I hugged her and licked the prominent pink nipple so close by. "Yes, words I can tell you about. I am a plumber and a part time writer."
Katarina said, "In Russia, plumbers are very important. Make outhouses go away."
But not at Burning Man. Legions of porta potties were down every avenue, complete with washing stations for hands.
Elena got off my lap and climbed into the truck. Katerina caught me eyeing the bare behind of her sister and said, "You are bad. That is for later." Her smile was wide.
I crooked my finger and she assumed Elena's position on my lap. Her breast was equally lickable. Her lips were warm and her tongue found mine. I said, "Better."
Elena was back, hitching her chair closer and opening a book on her knees.
"Pay attention. That is special boob. Is not going away."
I asked if they were twins, even though they did not look much alike. "Yes, what is word... We are fraternal twins, two eggs."
Yesterday, over way too much vodka punch, they had told me the story of being sent from Russia to their uncle Ivan in Brooklyn when they finished elementary school. Their mother, a divorced mathematics professor, told them there was no future for academics in Omsk, and they should study hard in America and make careers there.
Even though there was a large Russian community, where they could speak their native language, Ivan was firm that in America, one speaks English, and made them struggle through language lessons from the first days of their arrival.
They were very smart, and did well in school. Ivan sent each report card back home to Svetlana, who wrote long letters about scholarship, and respect for learning. They got into City University of New York on the special program for gifted students. Ivan and Momma had letters back and forth about their majors. And also about boys.
At CUNY, during the day, Elena and Katarina enjoyed the openness and casual friendship of other students. At night, to their way of thinking, there was entirely too much old fashioned Russian discipline. Ivan could not be avoided as long as they were under his roof, so they toed the line, day after restless day. At night, cuddled in one of their two beds, they whispered about how to gain their freedom.
In the very first semester at college, they made the Dean's list, to great joy at home and among their family friends. Unlike some of the immigrant Russians, especially the ones living a life of petty crime, or worse, being part of the mafia, the girls wanted success the hard way.
In their senior year, a friend said they should look at the library science program because there seemed to be plenty of jobs for junior librarians. The degree took an extra year, but Ivan was enthusiastic. They could find jobs at libraries in New York City and live with him.
They were very lucky that an attractive older Russian woman met Ivan at a community dance and started going out with him. Ivan became a foolish middle aged man in love. The girls arranged to meet the new lady at a coffee shop and explained their need to be on their own. If she was going to live with Ivan, would she please demand that the nieces from Omsk had to move out? With hugs and kisses, she joined their plot. A week later, on Sunday morning, Marina and Ivan came downstairs for breakfast and announced they were getting married. Very apologetically, Ivan said that it would be too crowded in the apartment for four adults after the marriage, and looked at them sadly. With fake sniffles, they embraced him and Marina and wished them a happy life together and said they would begin looking for their own apartment immediately.
His memory of the rest of the story he heard yesterday was dim, probably because they had drunk him under the proverbial table with their potent punch. He did remember a lot of kissing and a lot of groping, and thought he might even have had sex with them on a big mattress inside the box truck. They seemed very comfortable being naked in his arms this morning.
Elena was pointing at a picture in the book, which turned out to be a history of the Ottomans. "Look, you will be our Pasha. Pasha on the Playa with his women." They giggled.
He tried to move Katarina so he could read the book, but he was hard again and she was holding him tightly. He kissed her and said, "No Pasha if you don't let me read."
She laughed and jumped from his lap. "You read. We dress and go for bike ride on playa."
Plumbers don't get whole weeks off for naked arts festivals, so I had finally ducked out of work and dashed for Gerlach on Wednesday morning. It was now Thursday, if my hungover brain was working, and I was late to the party. With the dust and the heat, I wondered if it was really necessary to be a crazy person for a whole week.
The librarians were back, with feathered headdresses, and skimpy bikini outfits made of fake animal fur. Very strange and exotic. They examined me and declared that I would wear a black speedo and nothing else except dark glasses. I didn't have a black speedo, but they did. With a lot of unnecessary playing with my penis, I was settled into the suit and told to get my bike. Before we went anywhere, they slathered on a lot of lotion and declared we were safe from skin cancer. I wondered.
They showed me the way down six o'clock avenue to Center Camp, where there were unclothed females, and males also, in great profusion. I asked, "This is really just a nudist colony?"
"Pasha is to be quiet. We will explain later."
Before us, in the inner semicircle of the camp, were acres and acres of open desert, flat as could be, dotted with strange and weird things. Straight ahead was a giant statue, which I knew had to be the Man. The Burning Man statue, who would burn on Saturday night. An avenue full of walking and biking Burners lead out to the Man, and in the distance beyond him was another structure.
"Is Temple. We go there."
We had to stop every minute or so for explanations. The playa was where all the art was. Small to large, with incredible variety. Elena said, "Some art takes whole year and many hours to construct. Comes from all over world. Simple librarians impressed." She smiled at me. I worked my bike up to her and placed my arm around her waist. I leaned over and whispered, "Simple librarian is doing a New York number on dumb plumber. You have advanced degrees from CUNY, and that accent did not get you there."
She said to her sister in a standard Brooklyn dialect, "Katerina, he has found us out. I think game is up."
Katarina looked at me boldly, "Plumber, don't play dumb either. After tour, we will go back to the truck and talk. For now, be good." To emphasize the point, she flipped her hips at me.
The Temple was very interesting. A giant wood structure, almost filigree in places, built in a week, that would burn on Sunday night in memory of all the Burners who had died since last year. It was filled with mostly silent people, who seemed to be treating it as a church, whether they had clothes on or not. The rumbling throb of the giant speakers back in the camp was muted. The Russians were standing over their bikes, their hands on my shoulders.
